


No Bad Without Good (Нет худа без добра)

by Chocolatepot



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Class Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, Loyalty, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatepot/pseuds/Chocolatepot
Summary: Following an assassination attempt, Grand Duke Valery is left badly hurt, and Konstantin Ivanovitch knows it's all his fault. But maybe, he hopes, things will go back to normal and he can continue pretending to simply be Valery's friend and advisor, nothing more.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	No Bad Without Good (Нет худа без добра)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



It seemed like there was an anarchist bombing every other week, and roughly half of them hurt if not killed someone, so it was not a terrible shock when the Grand Duke Valery was injured by one in the Street of the Artisans – although it did cause a frightful stir, as Valery was the handsome and popular second son of the Emperor of All Borovaya, and the newspapers were able to run a story about his condition every day alongside an official court photograph. Most of the articles made a passing mention to the fact that his aide, Konstantin Ivanovitch Petrov, was there at the time and made some attempt to care for him. Konstantin Ivanovitch had the plain face and bloodline of a peasant (or rather, a low-ranking civil servant), and so his picture was not placed on the front pages of the newspapers, above the fold.

His own injuries were minor, and within a few days he was well enough for Grand Duke Kirill to pester for a partner in tennis. The imperial family rarely stayed in the state residences in the city, preferring the smaller and more private palace thirty miles south of it, which was situated in an extensive park. The nets for lawn tennis were set up at a good walk from the palace, down a winding path around a little pond. Valery insisted on being allowed to sit in a chair on the sideline in order to watch; as there was still a little bite in the air, Konstantin carefully wheeled him to a sunny spot and tucked a lap robe around his legs. As he tied an old paisley shawl under Valery’s bent right arm, encased in its cast, Kirill leaned on the net and bawled out, “Come _on_ , Kostka!” Konstantin gave him an affectionate quelling look, then turned back to Valery.

“You’ll be all right?”

“For half an hour or so, while you beat Kirka? I think I can manage!”

He met Valery’s eyes and looked away. “I just want to be sure.” After one last pat to the shawl, he straightened up, stretched, and arranged his face into a smile. “Shall we make it best three out of five?” he called out to Kirill. “Or perhaps best four out of seven?”

“Whatever number you make it, I’m going to win all of them, I can feel it!” said Kirill, brandishing his racquet and taking a few experimental swings. Konstantin was very tempted to let him win, but all of the Demidovs had a tendency to fly into tempers when they thought they were being humored – Valery grew stern, Kirill cried in frustration, Pavel would feel his dignity being besmirched and say a number of harsh things, and Ekaterina shouted. Despite their exalted station, the Empress had been very firm that they should grow up like any other children, with the expectation that they learn to excel based on their own talents and hard work, and they were taught from an early age not to accept the royal treatment (although Pavel had transitioned seamlessly into his public role as Crown Prince, and in the back of Konstantin’s mind, where he allowed himself to be critical, he thought Pavel mostly wanted to be unaware that he was being allowed to win).

By the time Kirill started to flag noticeably, Konstantin was feeling a tightness in his own chest. Instinctively, he looked to Valery, and berated himself for not pausing more frequently during the game to do so – but the Grand Duke was looking well, and Ekaterina had come out to stand with him. They were the best-looking of the family, with light brown hair and blue eyes, as well as perfect skin, high cheekbones, and brilliant smiles; if Valery weren’t so sadly bruised and battered and plastered up they would look like a pair of dolls in their white clothes.

As he started toward them, their benign gazes turned to scowls, and his mind raced to think of how he might have offended them. Valery even pressed his left hand to his armrest as though he could rise, and then sank back wincing – Konstantin would have gone to him, but Ekaterina intercepted his path while taking out her handkerchief.

“Your head, Kostka,” she said, pressing it against the side of his face. “It’s bleeding. You’ve overexerted him, Kirill!” she added in a shout as she leaned to one side and glared at her little brother. “You must take better care of yourself. Just because you’re not in a cast like Valerchik doesn’t mean you’re in good condition, and your health is more important than Kirill’s tennis skills, _especially_ as I’ve been sent out here to remind him that his geometry lesson was to start five minutes ago.”

Konstantin reached up and took the handkerchief from her – sure enough, it was stained with bright red blood, and he replaced it, pressing down to stanch the flow. The stitches must have come open; the cut had started hurting at one point, but he had assumed that it was sweat irritating the wound. “I am fine, truly. Kirya’s done nothing wrong.”

“You will rest along with me, at least for the rest of the week,” Valery put in, and Konstantin went to sit beside him on the lawn as Ekaterina started to chase Kirill indoors. He leaned over to rest the arm holding up the handkerchief on the chair’s wheel, and Valery moved his hand slightly so that his fingers brushed Konstantin’s hair. They sat in silence for a minute, Konstantin staring across the park to the lake, and the pavilion on the island. Just a few months before, the two of them had skated to it across the ice, racing each other and collapsing on the snow. Valery’s hair had been ruffled up, and Konstantin hadn’t been able to stop himself from reaching up and smoothing it. Then Valery had looked at him, and Konstantin had dropped his hand and his eyes and pretended to be busy with his skates.

“Do you remember what happened?” Valery asked, finally.

“Do I …”

“In the Street of the Artisans.Three days ago.”

_The carriage stopped outside the Steyrian embassy, where they had an invitation for tea with the ambassador’s wife. The air was chill, so cool that stray flakes were swirling here and there, although the ground was warm enough from the season that they melted once they landed. Without the signs of later spring, the buildings were drab and dark._

_Valery went to disembark, but Konstantin stopped him with a raised hand. There had been too much danger of late, and they were traveling with only one guard. He opened the door, stepped out; looked left and right, then gestured for Valery to follow. But as he turned, a slight man in plain clothing darted out of an alleyway, carrying something under his arm._

“Yes, of course,” said Konstantin. “How could anyone forget such a thing?”

_The man skidded to a halt and threw his grenade toward them; as he tried to run away, the guard went in pursuit, leaving the projectile still smoldering. Without hesitation, Konstantin shoved the Grand Duke back into the carriage and advanced on the bomb. There were still several seconds left before it would explode, time enough for him to cover it with his own body._

_As he stepped forward, Valery scrambled to his feet inside the carriage, exited, and pulled him away. The grenade blew, sending cobblestones and splinters into the air and the horses down the street with the remains of the carriage, while Valery and Konstantin were both thrown a dozen feet._

“I don’t mean the bomb – I mean after it.”

_Valery had managed to shield Konstantin from the worst of the blast, but the two men were pushed apart as they were flung by the force of the blast. Konstantin drew himself up on his knees and looked frantically about; Valery was two arms’ lengths away, his limbs at odd angles. Something was wrong with Konstantin’s right leg, but he ignored it as he pulled himself over to the Grand Duke. Eyes closed, covered in dust and blood, he looked almost like a corpse. Konstantin’s hands raced over his body, testing his hands, his face, and finally the pulse under his jaw. Miraculously, his heart was still beating._

_“Valera,” he croaked. “Valera, please. Please!”_

_There was no response._

_“Valera, you stupid idiot, how could you do that? I’m the one who’s supposed to be expendable!”_

_There was still no response. Valery was not dead, but he was not quite alive either._

_“Valerochka.” Konstantin had never thought to speak the endearment out loud, but he would likely never have the chance again – either Valery would die and be gone forever, or he would wake and heal and everything would go back to the way it had to be. “Please be alive – please, please be alive. I love you, Valerochka. I love you so much that it kills me every day to see you and not say anything, but it would kill me even more quickly to never see you again.” He wiped his eyes with his dirty sleeve, smearing ash across his cheek, and looked about quickly. The guard was returning with some other men through the smoke and rubble. “Please, Valerochka.”_

Konstantin froze, then darted to his feet. He stared at Valery, whose upturned face was fully illuminated by the sun, and then turned away and started across the lawn back to the palace. Then he stopped and swung around. Valery was still in the same place: this chair could only move when pushed from behind. Slowly, he walked back.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I remember.”

Valery’s face slowly opened into a smile, a sweet and beautiful smile. His left hand formed a fist on the armrest, then opened as well.

“But …” Konstantin swallowed again before he spoke. “It should not have happened. You are my prince and I am your servant – I shouldn’t feel such things, and I should never have said anything about it, so I beg you to please forget all about it.”

“I most certainly will not.”

Konstantin heard what Valery said, but couldn’t bring himself to believe that that was what he had said, so he continued. “And I should have tried harder to protect you from that bomb, for the same reason. I should have died to keep you from being injured.”

“Kostka …” Valery shook his head, still smiling. “Kostenka … I’ve wanted to say that for a while, you know. Kostenka, I’m very happy to be a little hurt in exchange for your life. You’re _not_ expendable, not to my family in general, I’m sure, and especially not to me. I wasn’t about to let you die for me.”

His words finally began to sink in. “You … wanted to say that?”

“You’re not a slave, or a servant, or an imperial guard, and you’ve no obligation to lay down your life for me unnecessarily. You’ve always been my friend, ever since we were little, and – and I love you, you idiot.” There was a long silence; after a moment, Konstantin’s legs weakened and he fell to his knees in front of Valery, who gave him a bemused look. “When you said it would kill you not to see me, well … that’s what I was thinking when I saw you trying to throw yourself on that grenade.” He reached out with his good arm to Konstantin, who grasped it without looking.

“I wouldn’t have said what I said if I’d thought you could hear,” he said urgently. “I thought you were – I thought you were going to –”

“I know,” said Valery. “I wasn’t awake, exactly, I was just – not quite there. But I did hear you, and, Kostenka, that’s really what brought me back.”

Without even thinking about what he was doing, Konstantin crawled forward until he was up against Valery’s legs. “You’re the Grand Duke Valery Feodorovitch Demidov and I’m just plain Konstantin Ivanovitch Petrov. Your father is the Emperor of All Borovaya and mine was a junior undersecretary in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We can’t do this.”

“You know my father would have much rather been born to be a junior undersecretary – and I’m not so grand as all that, only the second son. Pavel has Marya, and with little Sashenka already born and another on the way, he’ll take care of all the dynastic concerns. And there’s Kirill after me, too. It’s all right, now that we both know how we feel.” Valery worked his hand free and cupped Konstantin’s face. “It’s all right.”

Konstantin put his hands on Valery’s knees, closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek into Valery’s hand. It was so hard to believe, after all this time, that it could be true. That it wasn’t a gross example of _lesé majesté_ for him to even contemplate loving the Grand Duke, let alone being loved back. That the vast gulf between their social stations could be bridged. And that, even on a purely personal level, such a paragon as Valery could ever find anything to love about a man as insignificant and plain as himself. It was unbelievable – yet what choice did he have but to believe it, when Valery said so?

Suddenly, he shot upright on his knees; Valery leaned back to compensate, and his mouth dropped open a little in surprise. Konstantin slid his fingers over Valery’s trousers, avoiding any pressure to protect the breaks and bruises.

“When I get _my_ head broken by an anarchist, Valerochka,” he whispered, “you’d better repeat these stirring speeches.”

In response, Valery wound his good hand into Konstantin’s hair and pulled him close, and neither could say anything for some time.

**Author's Note:**

> The universe of this story happens to be similar to our own, and Borovaya is closely (very closely!) based on Russia, ca. 1910. I played around a bit with the Russian-language system of name diminutives. People have an official first name (e.g. Nadezhda), a shortened form usually ending in -ya or -a used informally (Nadya), a shortened form usually involving an added -k- used by closer friends (Nadenka), and a longer form ending in -ushka or -ochka that indicates an affectionate relationship such as between lovers or a parent and child (Nadyushka). (That's the extremely basic version, this can be very complicated in practice!) Hopefully this is clear from context, but!


End file.
